Twenty Two
by Daughter of the North
Summary: Do you understand? Of course you don't. You have never been in my shoes. You will never have to bear the weight of it all. I cannot stand what they have made me do. Quick drabbles set in the gap between the first and second books.
1. Dream Killer

**I want to thank my amazing friend, She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, for editing this for me. I LOVE you! Yeah, you know who you are;)**

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**DREAM KILLER**

Do you understand? Do you know what I've done?

They were children. In any other time, in any other place, I would've known their names. I would've smiled with them. If not for our circumstance, I would have looked up to some, guided others.

But they hurt you, you say. But they wanted you dead. But they harmed those you love. But. But. But.

Don't you understand?

They were forced into it as much as me. I did not wish them dead. Not even the worst of them, the boy who hated me.

Do you know why he hated me?

I watched him cry as the girl he considered a sister died. I watched a girl succumb to death, shrieking and fighting something she was destined to lose.

We were all destined to lose.

We couldn't win. We never could. Even the victor of the sport, they lose the most.

What, you ask. But you won. You survived. You are not dead. You are rich, and blessed.

Don't you understand?

You are wrong. I am dead. I was dead the moment I declared my name. I was dead as I walked to the stage. I was dead as the gong sounded. I was dead as I left the grave of 22 others. 22 others that are as dead as I.

I am haunted. Chased by nightmares of a wisp of a child who made the birds sing. I am left with strong boys who hid in fields and died with honor. Haunted by the whispered please, one that begged to be killed. Girls with knives fill my closed eyes, tracing my lips, whispering that she was dead, like me. I was abandoned to the whims of a girl with intelligent eyes that refused to fight. The girl who pleaded for mercy shrieks in my head, but she never is saved. I dream of the faces of those I cannot name; girls with blond pigtails, children with scared faces and curly hair, young women with big brown eyes, boys who had sweethearts back home, big brothers, little sisters.

All dead.

And I am alive. Because they died; they unwittingly cursed me to life. Because every breath I take reminds me of 22 that are not taken. Every step makes me see 22 steps not trodden. I see 22 blank sets of eyes watching me unseeing. Every time I think to the future, I can almost feel the weight of 22 dreams crushing upon me, because they will never be fulfilled.

Don't you understand?

I am a dream killer.


	2. Nameless

**I didn't think this was a more than one time deal, but I had to put Peeta in here. I have never written Peeta; I hope I conveyed a good sense of broken strength through this.**

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**NAMELESS**

I can't stand what they have made me do.

My hands were forced into their blood, my eyes did not have the safety of a screen to watch them die, and I must bear the lives of 22 on my damaged shoulders.

Even though I tried not to kill, even though I vowed to be me, not to change, I did.

Things like being in a fight to the death tend to transform people.

When I sleep, 22 others watch me, fingering the wounds that killed them. Some accuse me with their empty eyes, but most seems to simply stare, tears dried to their cheeks, as if they cannot muster any more to fill the void. They hiss '_Did you allow them to change you?'_ as the very dream wails in mourning for these children that I allowed to die. I came home, so they didn't. 22 children are gone forever.

But only 22.

Not 23. The 23 is here with me, shaking at my side as the cool air fills with speeches, our heads aching with the memory of those corpses that haunt our evenings as we pretend that we are thrilled. She stares, face burning with a mix of utter shame and determination, at the ground while I spew pretty words that mean nothing. I cannot bring their children back.

I worry for her. Those who are dead are dead. Worrying about them does nothing. It is how we act, how we respond. We must move on; but she seems rooted in her scars, locked into staring down each child and wondering if maybe it wasn't worth it to come home after all that she had seen. I keep my eyes forward.

At least, that is what I tell myself to do while I sob in a corner, clutching my face and staring at the carpet to prevent darkness from filling my eyelids. Telling yourself to avenge them, to live a life that respects their deaths is easy; actually following your own advice is near impossible. At least I have _her_; when I am with her, somehow it seems bearable. She is my anchor, now that I understand that she will never love me. But I will protect her, I refuse to watch her die before my eyes, or turn into our mentor.

That would kill me in a way that the other 22 never could.

The other 22 never had history with me. I never heard them sing. I never saw them grow up, laughing as they played, crying when they stumbled and skinned their knees. They will never mature, never become adults; they will always be cold, too cold, with vacant eyes and waxy complexions. Every time I wake up gasping as I remember, I make promises to each of them.

They died. I did not. She did not. We have a chance to live. Live for all of them who never will.

And I vow to do that. Their deaths at the hand of these monsters were terrible. I hate them with a passion that rivals nothing but my love for _her_. I am alive, though. And I will live a life that honors their short ones. I will never forget their faces, even as I will never know all their names.

In their memory, I will not allow the Capitol to change me.

I will live in memory of the nameless.


End file.
